


an everyday morning routine

by endofadream



Category: Captain America (Movies), Captain America - All Media Types, Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Coffee Shops & Cafés, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - No Powers, Amputee Bucky Barnes, Anxiety Disorder, Artist Steve Rogers, Baker Bucky Barnes, Blow Jobs, Depression, M/M, Masturbation, Past Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Past Drug Addiction, Post-Serum Steve Rogers, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, War Veteran Bucky Barnes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-07
Updated: 2019-06-13
Packaged: 2020-01-06 11:58:16
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 16,818
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18387992
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/endofadream/pseuds/endofadream
Summary: Then he makes the mistake of actually looking up and at the customer waiting by the register.And because Bucky Barnes's life always, always has the capacity to get worse, he's staring at the most gorgeous man he’s ever seen.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> "i'm not going to add to the already-saturated amount of coffee shop fics out there," i said, as i began working on a coffee shop fic.
> 
> title from “composure” by real friends, because it’s perfect for the bucky in this fic. also i just love real friends.

Morning is barely a glow over the tops of the buildings when Bucky approaches the locked door of the cafe. He’s freezing and dog-tired, eyes burning after yet another restless night of nightmares. A yawn is stifled in his sleeve as he fumbles with the key in his pocket. It takes three tries from a trembling hand to slide it home and twist the handle. In front of him Bucky’s annoyed huff plumes white before dissipating.

The morning shift is Bucky’s least favorite, but something about the still peacefulness of the place makes him feel at ease: the faint smell of yesterday’s coffee; no customers, just him and the ovens and sticky pastry dough in his hands. For a few hours four days a week Bucky isn't guarded or worried or constantly seeking out exits. There is none of that usual persistent itch just under the surface of his skin to run. For a few precious hours he can just  _ be. _

The shop always seems bigger in the mornings with all of the chairs stacked on dark wooden tables, their spindly legs stretching towards the high ceiling. In the afternoons, when the cacophony of different voices fills every nook and cranny, it’s easy to forget that it’s just a small corner place on a nameless Brooklyn street.

The bell above the door tinkles gently as Bucky pushes it open. He locks it again behind him, shaking off the lingering remnants of the chill.

Before he began working here the shop had just been a place for him to go, hungover or usually still drunk, after all-nighters that did little to stave off his troubles. On the really bad nights, the ones Bucky doesn’t like to remember, it had been a stoop to sleep on.

Hanging his coat up in the employee area, Bucky slips his earbuds in and sets his phone on shuffle before going through the kitchen towards the freezer. At the first strain of Tchaikovsky he feels the tension begin to slowly leech from his muscles. From then on his movements are automatic, unhurried, as he washes his hands and preps his station.

When he’d begun here, there had been a specific rotation for pastries. After he’d been put in the back and had discovered—to his utter surprise—that he wasn't a total mess with a rolling pin he’d been tasked with choosing whatever he wanted as the special of the day. Over the months he’s gone from the usual coffee shop staples like croissants and scones to things like doughnuts and baklava, the latter of which had sold out in just a few hours. Today, it’s eclairs.

The pate a choux is ready in a stainless steel bowl on the counter and Bucky is just bringing the pasty cream out of the fridge when Natasha arrives. She nods in his direction, giving him a grin before grabbing her apron and setting out opening up the shop.

“Anything you need me to do, boss?” she asks, popping back in, hands busy behind her back as she ties her apron. Her eyes are bright despite the early hour, her red hair tied up in a perfect bun. She’s teased Bucky enough about his own shoulder-length hair and reminds him daily that her past as a ballerina had made her  _ pretty good  _ at buns, but Bucky refuses to take her up on the offer. He only has so much dignity left, and he’s not going to waste it on a manbun.

Bucky rolls his eyes. “How many times do I gotta tell you to stop calling me that?” He fills a pastry bag with pate a choux, giving her a pointed look that she counters immediately with a flutter of her lashes. Like Bucky _hasn't_ witnessed her kicking a guy’s ass with nothing more than her combat boots and bare fists. He begins piping dough onto the sheet he’s laid out and says, “You could go write today’s special on the board outside, since your handwriting is _so much_ _better_ than mine.”

“Not my fault everyone thought it said cupcocks. Which, by the way, is still hilarious.”

Bucky scowls. Natasha blows him a kiss before leaving.

  
  


It’s nothing short of a miracle that Bucky is even here at all, actually.

Nat doesn't even know. She only knows the bare details: that Bucky was in the army, that he lost his arm in an explosion, that acclimating back into civilian life was, and still is, the hardest thing that he’s ever done.

What she doesn't know is that the owner of the shop, Bruce, had gotten tired of seeing Bucky high out of his mind on heroin and barely able to hand over the correct amount of money nearly every morning and had offered him a job if he straightened up. Bucky, jobless and still wearing long sleeves in July to hide his arm, had taken it.

What Nat doesn't know is that Bucky goes to AA and NA meetings once a week and very nearly had to go to rehab as well. That he visits a therapist once every two weeks, once a week if the night terrors are bad. These are things that Bucky doesn't divulge because no matter how far he seems to run from his past, no matter how much progress he makes or how many chips he receives, it’s always hot on his tail, an inescapable shadow filled with desert sand and blood.

If his ma and pop were alive today…

Well, they’d be disappointed, that’s for sure. Bucky doesn't blame them. Everyone else had made it out of the army without a problem. No one else became an addict.

_ No one else got their arm blown off, either. _

War affects everyone differently. That’s what he’s been told. Some people see him as a hero, but Bucky sees himself as a shell, or an outline begging to be colored in. War washed away a lot of who he used to be, and he’s still trying to rediscover those parts of himself. It’s hard work—backbreaking work—and more days than not he wants to just give it all up.

The coffee shop, as simple as it is, gives him a purpose again. It’s given him baking, something gentle to do with hands that had previously only known the handles and triggers of weapons, the cold glass necks of bottles and the plunger of needles.

It’s also given him a family. Bucky’s sister, Becca, moved to California while Bucky was in the army, and the distance plus Bucky’s PTSD and substance abuse hadn’t made staying in touch easy.

They still talk on the phone occasionally, but Bucky can’t exactly afford a plane ticket, and Becca isn’t rushing to visit him, either. Which Bucky is fine with. He’s Becca’s big brother; he doesn’t want her to see how he cowers now at loud, unexpected noises, or how a decent amount of his muscle mass has wasted away, leaving him almost thinner than he’d been in high school.

And let’s not forget the arm.

——

“That’s Stark tech, right?” Bruce asked while going over the application Bucky had filled out on the spot.

Bucky’s eyes widened and he glanced down automatically, bending his bionic fingers and watching as they folded and straightened like the ones on his flesh hand. “How…” he croaked, clearing his throat and forcing himself to make eye contact, no matter how hungover he still was. “How did you know?”

Bruce looked up and smiled. It wasn't that condescending one that Bucky often saw fixed in his direction: it was a little sad, a little fond. He folded his fingers together on his desk, peering at Bucky through thin-rimmed glasses. Bucky thought that Bruce’s eyes looked tired and far-away, as if he were reminiscing. “Tony and I go way back. Before my…accident, I worked with him. We came up with a lot of great things together, a prototype of that arm included.”

Suddenly self-conscious, Bucky pulled his sleeve down and fidgeted with it. He still didn't like the way that people looked at it, at him, like he was some kind of monster. The stares from kids, the stage whispers to their mothers and fathers of  _ why’s that man’s arm look like a robot? _ and  _ what’s wrong with him? _

Bucky shrugged one shoulder, biting his lip and staring at the grain of the wood desk instead of at Bruce. “It’s a…nice arm. I guess. It’s pretty much like my other one. Just…”

“Metal?” The smile in Bruce’s tone was evident. “When I saw you in my shop, James, wearing the arm that I had spent countless nights perfecting, I wanted to help you for a purely selfish reason. I wanted to know how my design was working, what its flaws were.”

Bucky looked up, then. “You did?”

Bruce nodded. “And then I saw how much you needed help. I didn't want to keep seeing you on my shop’s doorstep every morning looking like you’d just been through another war and back. You deserve a second chance, and I want to give that to you.”

Tears pricked Bucky’s eyes, unbidden, and he looked down and squeezed them shut, digging his nails into the thighs of his jeans. It was a long moment before he could control his voice, and there was still a slight waver to it as he said, “You do.” It wasn't a question, because Bruce didn't set it up as one.

“I know you’re a hero, Sergeant. I’ve read your files. And I also know what being a hero does to a person. You still have a chance to come back from this.”

The rustle of paper made Bucky look up. Bruce held out his hand, an invitation Bucky took, and said, “Welcome aboard. Before we can get your training started we need to make sure that you're going to be able to stay clean. You will need to pass monthly drug tests for the foreseeable future, as well as attend weekly AA and NA meetings, which I can help you with if you need it.”

“I…” Bucky’s throat felt thick. “I don't know what to say.”

“‘Thank you’ is a pretty good start,” Bruce replied, smiling.

Bucky laughed, nodded, and hid his face so Bruce wouldn't see the shine of his eyes. “Thank you.”

——

“What do you do if you get batter in the grooves?” Natasha acts, all smooth tact, never letting her grin falter for one second.

The shop opens in ten minutes. The fragrant scent of freshly ground coffee is rich and warm in the air. The eclairs are chilling in the fridge and Bucky is working on cupcakes, vanilla bean and orange cream for the early fall weather.

Bucky rolls his eyes and holds up his left hand, wriggling his fingers. “I know you see that I’m wearing a glove.”

“I know, but it got you to smile, didn't it?” Natasha nudges his shoulder and steals frosting from the bowl despite Bucky’s protests.

It had, but it has less to do with Natasha’s gentle teasing and more to do with the ease he has around her. She doesn't push the way that others tend to when Bucky gets withdrawn and quiet; she lets him ride it out, knows that there are just some things you let be.

“Yeah, well,” he replies, moving the bowl out of her reach. “You tend to smile less when you’ve been through hell and back.”

Natasha sobers up immediately. “You know that—”

Bucky waves her off and starts doling out batter into the slots of the cupcake pan. He knows, and he appreciates it. However, talking about it, or even just  _ thinking _ of talking about it, makes him feel nauseous, and he’s had almost a full good week for the first time in months. There’s no way he’s letting that slip through his fingers now.

“Shouldn’t you go out front and look all pretty for the big-shot businessmen getting their first cup of coffee?” Bucky deflects, giving her the lopsided grin that he knows will satiate her concern. It works, and Natasha elbows him as she steps away from the counter. Bucky makes a noise of protest at the batter that drips down the pan and onto the countertop.

The morning goes smoothly. It’s just him and Nat until eight, when Clint shows up. Bruce is out for the week, despite Bucky’s protests that leaving control of the shop in Natasha’s hands is just asking for trouble; namely, that she teases a lot less when the boss is just a few feet away and Bucky doesn’t have to worry about pranks or walking in on her and Clint making out in the break room.

He’s just started cleaning up his workstation and getting the eclairs out of the fridge from where they’ve been setting when Natasha calls out his name from the front.

“James, hey, can you get this one? The milk steamer’s being a bastard again and Clint said he’s gonna be running a little late.”

“Sure.” Bucky hefts the tray of eclairs up with his left hand and nudges the door open with his hip. “I’ll be with you in just one second,” he starts to say as he steps out into the workspace behind the counter.

Then he makes the mistake of actually looking up and at the customer waiting by the register.

Because his life always,  _ always _ has the capacity to get worse, Bucky is staring at the most gorgeous man he’s ever seen. He’s tall and fucking  _ built  _ and flushed red, breathing a little heavy—presumably, judging by his Under Armour-sponsored clothes, in from a run. He offers Bucky a grin, a small “hi” that manages to be both deep and breathy, and sweeps a hand through his blond hair. The movement causes the ridiculous muscles in his bicep to bulge, straining against the thin sweat-wicking material of his shirt, and Bucky’s eyes go there like magnets.

And Bucky? He  _ drops the goddamn tray _ .

He’s lucky there are only a few customers in this early, because the colorful string of invectives that he releases as eclairs roll everywhere would make even his army buddies blush.

“I’m so sorry,” he mutters, ears burning, unable to look Hot Jogger Guy in the eye. He hastens to kneel and pick up the fallen eclairs, setting the tray off to the side once he straightens up. He looks at the till instead of the guy, asks, “What can I get for you?” and hopes that it’s quick and painless so he can go mourn the loss of his dignity in the back.

“Just a small coffee,” the guy says. “Black, please.” God, even his  _ voice _ is pretty,  _ and _ he has manners. Bucky’s in way over his head already.

He has to look up to take the money the guy offers. It’s almost worse to see the polite  _ it’s okay _ smile on his face, because Bucky has seen that look too many times and most of them involve him being so pissed off his ass that he’s barely able to stumble home. Just once Bucky would like a cute guy to look at him like he  _ wants _ him, like Bucky is the man he was six years ago who never left a club without someone draped over his arm.

“Your coffee will be ready soon,” he mumbles.

He leaves before the guy can say anything, or Bucky can do something monumentally stupid like ask for the guy’s number or tell him how much he wants those arms pinning him against a wall.

“What was that?” Natasha asks after giving Hot Jogger Guy his coffee and Bucky’s ducked into the back and laid the tray of ruined eclairs next to the sink.

“Thanks for stepping in,” Bucky snaps, turning on the faucet with more force than necessary and sighing in defeat at the splatter of water on his sleeve. It washes the fight right out of him, leaving the burning shame in its wake. He can’t even blame it on the prosthetic, just his own stupidity.

“I assumed you could handle a cute guy without your programming malfunctioning or something.”

Bucky glares at her, but the heat isn't fully behind it. Nat means well. She’s privy to the fact that Bucky hasn't gotten laid since returning to US soil, and that he hasn't even tried since being fitted with the arm. She wants him to be happy, and Bucky appreciates it. Most of the time.

“It slipped,” he lies. “Must’ve had cooking oil on it or something.” He shuts off the water and dries his hands, hip-checking Natasha out of the way. “Now can I please go back to figuring out what to replace the special of the day with?”

Clint shows up in the middle of the mess, hanging his coat up on the rack in the break room. He finds Bucky where he’s still in the kitchen at his station debating the merits of scones and asks, “Yo, you promised eclairs today but there are none.”

Bucky doesn't even look up as he gestures towards the sink. Clint’s low whistle lets him know that he’s seen. “Shit. What happened?”

“It slipped.” Bucky shrugs. It’s not exactly a complete lie. “The cream needs to chill overnight so we’ll have to have them tomorrow.”

Clint looks unconvinced, but he drops it and heads out front to help Natasha.

Once Bucky is alone he rests his elbows on the lip of the sink, dropping his head into his hands. In his chest his heart wrenches, and he can feel the first stinging prick of tears when he squeezes his eyes shut and clenches his jaw.

Goddamn it, he’d been doing so fucking  _ good _ . No night terrors for a whole week, no urges to drink or shoot up for almost a month. He’s been clean for nearly six now, and all it had taken was one slip-up in front of a cute guy for it all to shudder under his feet and threaten to tip him over.

Bucky lets his shoulders shake with a single suppressed sob before he takes a deep breath and straightens up. He wipes the back of his flesh hand over his eyes and sniffles, shaking his head. The day has barely begun; he can do this. He knows he can do this.

After pacing around the kitchen for a few minutes Bucky gathers his hair up in a sloppy low ponytail and takes his headphones from his pocket. Opening Spotify on his phone, he scrolls through one of his punk playlists and presses shuffle.

When The Offspring begins, Bucky does as well.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> another chapter? already? who am i?

Recovery is a dance that refuses to let you learn the steps. It’s something his AA sponsor had told him when he’d still been asymmetrical, and it had been the thing that had solidified their professional and personal relationships.

Sam Wilson is a beacon of light in the shitstorm that is Bucky’s life, and between all the last-minute sessions and late-night phone calls and text messages he’s sure that he owes Sam his soul at this point.

Bucky looks down at his phone in his hand on the subway ride home, debating. They’d just had a session Friday evening, and they aren’t scheduled for another one until this coming Friday. Though he and Sam are tentative friends (Sam would say _acquaintances_ to maintain some sort of professional distance, even though they long crossed that bridge) Bucky doesn’t want to bother him.

The train lurches to a stop, Bucky stumbling slightly along with it. He stares at his contacts as he makes room for the people exiting and boarding the car. The doors close, and Bucky pockets his phone with a heavy sigh. Maybe he’ll shoot Sam a sad text later, something that’s just enough to vent but not enough to make Sam put on his sponsor hat.

Talking about what happened would more than likely be beneficial, but Bucky doesn’t think he has the mental energy after that morning and keeping it together to finish his shift. He knows how it goes the second he gets Sam on the phone: things will get overwhelming when he’s asked to explain. He won’t have the words to say what he wants and his mind will blank, leaving him more frustrated than before.

When Bucky eventually gets home he’s drained, exhaustion dragging at his bones before he’s even fully opened his front door. He collapses onto his couch and brings a pillow up to cover his eyes. It staves off the headache that’s been threatening at his temples since he got down onto the subway platform, but the anxious twisting in his stomach still persists.

He groans loudly against the pillow.

In true human fashion, his brain shuts down just enough to only let him relive his mortifying moment from that morning in stellar 4K Ultra HD. No matter how hard he smooshes the pillow against his face he can’t escape the sympathetic look in Hot Jogger Guy’s eyes or the metallic clanging of the tray as it fell to the floor.

He’s going to need to change his name after this. No, scratch that: he’s going to have to move back home to Indiana and _then_ change his name before someone can find him and say, “Hey, aren’t you the dude who made an ass out of himself because you saw a cute guy?”

Bucky shoves the pillow tighter against his face, trying to will himself out of existence, or at least to an alternate universe where he never got it in his head that going to Afghanistan was a good idea. Eventually he falls into an uneasy sleep, jolting awake when his phone vibrates loudly where he’d dropped it on the coffee table.

It’s dusk when Bucky throws the pillow to the other end of the couch, his apartment lit only by the blue squares of the windows on the far wall. It takes more effort than he’d like to sit up and get his phone but he manages, brushing his hair back from his face with his metal hand while his flesh hand unlocks the screen.

 **From Natasha:** Still moping?

 **From Bucky:** I would say no but I know you’ll tell me Im lying

 **From Natasha:** You’re absolutely right.

 **From Natasha:** Chin up, buttercup. You know how many people pass through that coffee shop every day. You’ll never see him again.

 **From Natasha:** So no need to change your name or go back to the farm.

 **From Bucky:** I am deeply concerned that you can actually read minds and you’re just not telling me

 **From Natasha:** No, you’re just predictable.

Bucky flops back onto the couch and stares up at the ceiling. The sad part is that Natasha’s right: he’s a creature of complete habit, and that unfortunately includes his melodrama.

His phone buzzes again, and this time it’s Nat telling him that he better be hungry and presentable in twenty, because she’s coming over with pizza. After reassuring her that he’s always presentable, _thanks_ , he locks his phone and stands to take a shower, turning on the floor lamp in the living room and the overhead light in the kitchen as he goes.

Though Nat hadn’t seen his mini-meltdown in the kitchen today, he doesn’t doubt that she knows about it and that pizza is her polite way of making sure that he doesn’t do anything stupid if left to his own devices for too long.

Which—he really appreciates. Staying sober is hard as fuck, and sometimes six months feels like two days.

Today was the first time in two months, maybe, where Bucky had truly felt the urge to break that sobriety, because if there’s one thing he can handle less than muttered questions about his arm it’s public humiliation. Nat’s a blessing in disguise, because he knows she’ll bring at least two liters of Coke with the pizza, which is the one vice Bucky’s let himself have since going sober.

Once in the bathroom he turns the shower handle to its hottest setting and methodically begins stripping down, tossing his clothes in a messy pile in the corner to pick up later. As the water heats up he chances a glance in the mirror above the sink and frowns at himself. Sometimes he forgets how much older he looks now, after the army and the addictions, even though a part of himself rationalizes that he’s not exactly a spring chicken anymore, anyway.

He stares until his face begins to blur and steam begins to crawl across the mirror. The last thing to disappear is the severe glint of his metal arm and the map of scar tissue surrounding it.

Bucky scowls at the fogged-over deep furrow between his brows. Old and disabled and working at a coffee shop.

_Oh, if only your high school self with all of his engineering aspirations could see you now._

Bucky derails that train of thought before it can fully leave the station. His right hand grips the lip of the sink tightly; the cold porcelain is already slick with moisture and his palm slides a fraction.

Everything had seemed bright and optimistic in high school because his parents were still _alive_. He had until the summer after graduation before a car accident on the Brooklyn Bridge would kill them and leave him and Becca alone.

 _Deep breaths_ he reminds himself as that black, sucking panic tries to crawl its way up his chest. _Deep breaths, you can’t change the past._

God, he wishes he could just have _one_ fucking drink. _One_ hit, maybe; he wishes he could forget what it felt like the moment the drugs hit his system, but it’s hard to forget what utter bliss feels like.

Bucky steps away from the mirror and scrubs his hands over his face. He concentrates on breathing in through his nose and out through his mouth, collecting himself until the vibrations in his body slow to a low thrum.

The shower curtain rings screech as he pulls it back and steps into the tub. Immediately Bucky lets out a groan of relief as the hot water already begins working on his muscles; he presses his forehead to the cool shower wall as it sluices down his neck and back to patter gently onto the tub floor.

He closes his eyes, allowing the dull roar of the shower to dissipate the noisy thoughts in his head: he pictures the water washing them away one by one, leaving him to focus only on the heat of the water on his skin.

Bucky loses track of how long he stands there. Eventually, as with everyone, his thoughts become more solid and less abstract: they morph into something tall and thick and blond, with pretty blue eyes and a nice smile.

Bucky jolts, eyes opening in surprise.

Before he can truly get his bearings to actually think about this arousal sparks low in his belly and quickly roars to life faster than it has any right to. It leaves him a little dizzy and a lot conflicted as his dick gives an interested twitch.

Though Bucky isn’t exactly celibate, jerking off has become something that he does only when he needs to, and even then he sometimes doesn’t. Hell, he doesn’t even know the last time that he actually fantasized about someone in particular.

But Hot Jogger Guy, well...he nails every single one of Bucky’s buttons. And, okay, it’s not like he’ll know.  _ And _ Bucky’s had a stressful day, so. It can’t hurt.

He takes his lower lip between his teeth, hesitating briefly, before his right hand slowly snakes down to take hold of his cock where it’s grown thick and heavy between his legs.

At the first touch of his fingers he shudders, a broken groan getting lost in the noise of the water. Then his grip becomes firmer, bolder, and by the time his fist is tightly wrapped around himself he’s trembling again down to his calves.

Closing his eyes again, Bucky lets himself think about blond hair and blue eyes. Maybe he’d get pinned against the wall and kissed until his lips hurt. Hot Jogger Guy definitely has the strength to push Bucky around the way he likes.

He sucks in an unsteady breath as he moves his fist over the length of his cock once, then twice, feeling how he firms up more in his grip and the veins pulse against his palm. Then it’s Hot Jogger Guy in the shower with him taking Bucky’s hand away to replace it with his own.

Bucky moans, quiet; his cock jumps in his hand and he squeezes around the head. It wouldn’t be slow and gentle, Hot Jogger Guy would know better. He’d be here, hair slicked back, pale skin flushed with the heat, and his eyes would be dark, possessive.

At six-foot even, Bucky is far from a small man, but Hot Jogger Guy would make him  _ feel _ like it. He’d crowd Bucky and say, “You want it rough, right? Hard? You wanna be owned?”

Bucky whimpers at the thought, lower lip between his teeth as pleasure rockets up his spine. He fucking misses what it feels like to be pushed around a little, pinned by strong arms and a heavy body. Submitting himself at his basest, communicating only with the movements of his own body and the animal noises pleasure creates.

Hot Jogger Guy would suck marks all up his neck and make it impossible to hide what happened at work the next day. Once he’d pinned Bucky’s arms above his head against the shower wall he’d make his way from left to right and find every spot along the way that makes Bucky shiver.

He begins jerking himself in earnest now and brings his metal hand between his legs to cup his balls. The fingers teasing at his hole are thicker than this, blunter, and they’d stretch him just a little too much at first, making him gasp at the burn.

“Yeah,” Hot Jogger Guy would say, three fingers deep to make Bucky moan. “You just can’t wait to get my thick cock in you. And once you do I’m gonna make you come so fucking hard, baby. Get you all weak at the knees so I gotta hold you up against the wall and fuck you ‘til you can’t take it anymore.”

He’d take Bucky hard and rough, the way he’d promised, fucking into him until Bucky’s feet barely touch the tub floor with each thrust. He’d say, “I can’t wait to come inside you, sweetheart. Gonna push my big cock deep in you and let you feel it. Fill you so full of my come, get on my knees and let it drip down into my mouth after I’m done with you.”

Bucky comes suddenly and harshly, metal fingers twisted deep in his ass to just barely stimulate his prostate. In surprise he whimpers, “Oh, oh,  _ oh _ ,” as he spills onto his fingers and the tub floor, his orgasm feeling like it was wrenched from some secret place deep within him.

It lasts forever and no time at all; he squeezes his eyes shut and desperately sucks air into his lungs, stroking until it becomes too much and makes his spine twist with a twinge of oversensitivity. His hand drops to his side.

“Jesus,” he breathes, overwhelmed, heart jackhammering in his chest.

It takes a few minutes for him to come down, for his breathing to slow and his legs to feel solid again. The water’s begun to run cold, so Bucky shuts it off. He doesn’t move from where he’s standing, doesn’t care that the shower had been completely pointless in terms of getting clean.

It’s only when he remembers that Natasha is coming over that Bucky jerks into action and grabs a towel to dry off with. He studiously does not let himself think about what happened in the shower as he gets dressed, as he buzzes Natasha in, as they divvy up the pizza and queue up his Netflix.  
  
_ It’s not like I’ll ever see him again _ , he assures himself as Natasha bumps his shoulder with hers and Bucky gives her an easy smile in response.

——

Clearly Bucky’s life is a joke to God or whatever higher power there is, because Hot Jogger Guy returns the next morning dressed to the nines in a deep blue suit with a slim tie and a pale blue dress shirt that brings out his eyes.

Bucky sees him come in the door from his place by the coffee machine where he’s arranging the cappuccino cups. In his haste to get back to the safety of the kitchen he nearly trips and barely avoids running right into Clint, who’s on his way out of the break room.

“Who’s here to murder you?” Clint asks once he’s steadied Bucky with two hands firm on Bucky’s shoulders.

There’s no time to remind Clint of how very _unfunny_ that joke is to a vet. Bucky looks back at where Hot Jogger Guy is standing, one person closer to the register now and tugging uncomfortably at his tie. When Bucky turns back to Clint there’s a positively evil grin forming on his face, and Bucky begins to stammer out, “Oh no y—”

“That’s him, isn't it?” Clint interrupts with absolute glee. “The one that made you drop a tray because the mere presence of his hotness distracted you. The hot, unbelievably ripped jogger guy. _Bro._ ”

“I did _not_ refer to him as that—”

“You didn't need to.” Clint waggles his brows. “Your face says it _all_.”

Bucky has a sudden vision of stabbing Clint with one of his stupid archery arrows. It would be the ultimate form of justice, in his opinion. Poetic, even, some might say.

Because Clint is still convinced that Bucky’s prosthetic arm has some sort of superhuman strength—and because Bucky may or may not have done nothing to dispel his theory— Bucky narrows his eyes, puts on his full murder-face (Sam’s words, not his) and says, very slowly, “I will not strangle you with my left hand if you let me get back to the goddamn kitchen _right now_.”

Clint moves fast when he wants to, Bucky will give him that.

Like the coward he is Bucky watches from the kitchen, peeking around the door as Clint takes Hot Jogger Guy’s order. From the toaster oven Nat gives him a strange look and Bucky glares at her until she rolls her eyes and puts someone’s breakfast sandwich in. When he’s safely judgement-free he focuses his attention back at the line in front of the register.

The suit that Hot Jogger Guy is wearing is unfairly well-tailored and quite frankly a danger to society with the way it hugs his delicious biceps and accentuates his massively broad shoulders. Jesus, how does anyone in his office get any work done?

Bucky watches as Hot Jogger Guy makes small talk with Clint. Now that they aren’t in direct proximity Bucky can actually get a good look at his face and notice that he has: an adorably large and slightly crooked nose; small, bright blue eyes; and a pouty lower lip. He also has an _amazing_ smile.

“You’re being creepy,” Nat comments as she walks past him.

“Shut up,” Bucky hisses in return, but his cheeks flame nonetheless.

It _is_ creepy, standing here and staring at a random dude who’s just getting his coffee. Take into account that he’d jerked off _in the shower_ to said random dude and Natasha has more of a point than she will ever know. And she will never, _ever_ know.

But, well, you gotta do what you gotta do, and if that involves hiding from the hot guy you embarrassed yourself in front of and then got off to in secret then that’s what Bucky’s doing.

Once Hot Jogger Guy leaves the counter with his coffee and the bell above the door has jangled securely with his exit Bucky ducks back into the kitchen and pretends like he hadn’t just spent the last ten minutes peeking around the corner and being, in general, _weird_.

(Hot Jogger Guy’s ass, though—angels would _weep_.)

That’s where Clint finds him rolling out a pie crust into a pan, his apron and generally his whole person covered in flour, because even though he has a surprising aptitude for baking Bucky is incapable of not making a mess.

“I know your ego doesn’t need any more stroking,” Clint says, “but the hot jogger bro looked seriously sad to see me at the register. Literally, the grin on his face _melted off_ when I stepped up.”

“He did not!” Bucky practically shrieks. For a moment he’s overcome with the childish urge to clap his hands over his ears; he stops himself only because he remembers at the last second that he’s covered in flour from the forearm down.

“He did,” Clint says. “He kept looking back here. I think he was trying to will you out here.”

“Maybe he was just counting down the seconds until he could get away from you,” Bucky snarks, pinching the edges of the pie crust a little harder than he intends to.

Unflappable as ever, Clint just laughs. “Yeah, to get to you, maybe.”

Bucky hates the hopeful little tingles that race down his spine, mocking him with their electricity. He picks up his rolling pin and points it aggressively in Clint’s direction and says, “I swear to god, if you don’t _leave_ —”

“Already leaving, loverboy,” says Clint, winking at him on his way out. Halfway out the door he turns back around. “Hey, say the word and I will gladly write your number on his to-go cup next time.”

Bucky drops his head into his hands, flour and all, and groans.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> this is probably the longest burn i've ever written, and i would apologize for it but honestly i'm just enjoying the build-up :)
> 
> i also changed the title! the last one was rushed and just didn't fit what i wanted the tone of the story to be. this one feels a lot better <3

Tuesday nights are Sam nights, which means, more or less, that they hang out at Bucky’s apartment and either watch shitty action films or play video games until one of them (usually Bucky) threatens to break the controller.

The night is always interspersed with questions about Bucky’s week, how he’s holding up, if he’s felt any urges, but Sam is so good at seamlessly integrating them that half the time Bucky doesn’t even notice until after he’s already answered the question.

He’s grateful that he was lucky enough to get a sponsor like Sam. Without him, Bucky isn’t sure if he’d have been this successful at keeping clean, or even if he’d still have the job at the coffee shop. Probably not, judging by his downward trajectory last summer.

After a lengthy round of  _ Grand Theft Auto _ with Sam cheering at him to pick off innocent pedestrians they settle onto the couch. Bucky takes a few Doritos from the bag on the coffee table and pops them in his mouth, thinking as he chews. After he swallows he says, “I have a question.”

“Lay it on me,” Sam replies, leaning forward to grab his glass of water.

Bucky mulls it over for a few moments, tipping his head towards the ceiling and tapping his metal fingers on his thigh. Sam is as straight as they come, but he’d been more than happy to reassure Bucky that relationship advice knows no sexuality, or some inspirational bullshit like that. So Bucky goes for it.

“Hypothetically,” he begins, slow as he tests the words in his mind before speaking them, “what if someone,  _ maybe _ , thought about a very attractive person they’ve seen but never really held a conversation with while they were having some...alone time?”

Sam chokes on his drink. Bucky thumps him on the back a few times until Sam glares at him. Bucky withdraws his hand.

“Sorry,” he says.

Sam just continues to cough, thumping himself on the chest a few times. Bucky looks back up at the ceiling and wonders if he should have just kept his damn mouth shut.

“Man, are you seriously asking me if it’s okay to fantasize about someone while jerking off?” Sam manages once he’s coughed vigorously and no longer sounds like he’s dying.

“I—maybe,” Bucky responds.

Sam sighs deeply, finishing off the rest of the water in his glass and setting it back down. “I’m your sponsor, not your sex therapist.”

“That doesn’t answer my question.”

“Bucky,” Sam says, slow and more than a little long-suffering, “you are a fully-functioning adult male, you know how jerking off works. What is this really about?”

Bucky can’t help but flush; he looks down at his own glass of water and mumbles, “I’ve maybe seen this very attractive person more than once at work.”

“Does he work with you?”

“Well,” Bucky says, “no."

“Then why don’t you ask him out?”

“Because I’m me!” Bucky holds his arms wide. “He is a  _ specimen _ , Sam. You don’t understand.”

“Oh yeah?” Sam crosses his arms and raises an eyebrow. “Try me.”

Sam is just as stubborn as Bucky, which makes for a great sponsor but a frustrating (okay, fine, still great) friend. And Bucky can’t fault him. It is literally Sam’s job to keep Bucky on the straight and narrow, and most of that involves a lot of the truth, whether Bucky wants it or not.

He’s been pretty candid, he thinks, about his lack of a sex life since the war. From PTSD to his amputation and eventually his prosthetic, Bucky wasn’t ready or comfortable to be naked with somebody. He still isn’t, but Hot Jogger Guy makes him  _ want _ to be. And that’s scary enough.

“I’m just,” Bucky starts, then pauses to rethink his phrasing. “I’m  _ me _ . I’m a mess. A year ago I was drunk or high almost every hour of the goddamn day. Couldn’t hold a job, didn’t even bother to try. Only reason I could even keep my crappy apartment was ‘cause of the money I got after my parents died, plus what the army owed me.”

“And now you’re not,” Sam replies simply. “You have a job, and you’ve been sober for half a year. That’s  _ progress _ , Bucky, whether you want to see it or not.”

“Maybe,” Bucky concedes. “Sure don’t feel like it, though.”

“If progress was easy you wouldn’t need guys like me.” Sam grins and bumps Bucky’s shoulder with his. “C’mon, man. I’m not saying you gotta talk to this dude tomorrow, or even this week, but at least try. Okay? For me.”

Bucky sighs, loud and exaggerated. “Since you  _ asked _ so  _ nicely _ .”

“That’s me,” Sam replies. “Always asking nicely.”

“Oh, fuck off,” Bucky says, but he laughs anyway.

When Sam leaves a few hours later Bucky cleans up their glasses and goes around the apartment shutting off the lights. It’s barely past ten but he’s exhausted from the day and right now nothing sounds like a better idea than collapsing into bed.

Except that when he does finally climb into bed after brushing his teeth and taking a quick shower he’s left staring at the ceiling, all previous exhaustion gone. In its place are his typical anxiety-driven thoughts, racing through his mind one after the other with no intention of slowing down anytime soon.

Sam was right; he  _ should _ pluck up the courage to talk to Hot Jogger Guy. Shoot your shot, right? Bucky knows, objectively, that he’s attractive. Sam would tell him he’s a catch, and Nat would make a point to mention that  _ when _ he smiles it makes him actually look approachable.

He should. He should, but...

The arm calibrates when Bucky raises it up, and the faint light from outside his curtains catches on the metal, giving it a fuzzy bluish glow. Bucky drops it back to the sheets, closing his eyes. No one wants an army vet with a metal arm, much less one with the host of other issues that Bucky also comes with.

Groaning, he flips onto his stomach and buries his face in his pillow. Maybe tomorrow Hot Jogger Guy will go to a different coffee shop and Bucky can live his sad, lonely life in peace.

——

Hot Jogger Guy has apparently made it his life’s mission to make Bucky’s hell, because he doesn’t show up once or twice more, but once a day for the rest of the  _ week _ .

That first day had been Sunday, and since then Bucky has had to endure a parade of suits that drive both his heart and his dick insane. Hot Jogger Guy favors blue (he has a dark navy suit and a medium-tone blue suit) but when he strolls in on Thursday in a charcoal suit Bucky is sure he’s going to combust. Or pop a stiffy at the coffee machine. If he had to choose he’d definitely rather go with spontaneous combustion.

Friday is, almost comparatively, worse: Hot Jogger Guy’s office must participate in Casual Fridays because he’s wearing a pair of dark-wash Levis that do... _ things  _ to his ass and thighs that make  _ Bucky _ want to do things to his ass and thighs.

He almost lets the blackberry and mint tarts in the oven burn, that’s how much those jeans do things to him.

“Can we kick him out?” Bucky asks Natasha as he liberates the just-this-side-of-overdone tarts from their tin shells. “He’s a liability to my baked goods.”

“You’re the liability, not him,” Natasha replies, taking one of the tarts that ends up being too burnt to place in the glass case on the counter. She takes a bite and gives Bucky a thumbs up. Pleased, Bucky sets aside the acceptable ones.

“It’s not my fault,” he huffs, “that he is too hot to be real.”

“No,” Natasha agrees, neatly polishing off the last of the tart, “but you practically shut down every time he walks in here. You need to just talk to him already and save us all a lot of trouble.”

“ _ Trouble _ ?”

“You deal with crushes the way twelve-year-olds do,” Natasha flatly replies.

“What does that even  _ mean _ ?” Bucky very nearly stomps his foot and catches himself just in time.

“It  _ means _ , James, that you sit here and mope without ever actually  _ talking _ to the guy. Who is, by the way, very interested in you judging by his daily visits.”

“Maybe he just likes the coffee.”

“Or maybe he likes  _ you _ ,” Natasha counters, exasperated. At a later time Bucky will revel in the fact that he got cool-calm-and-collected Natasha Romanov to get frustrated. Right now, he’s too busy trying to figure out what the  _ hell _ she means.

“Let’s be honest here,” she continues. “Our coffee is just as good as everybody else’s. This is New York: there are a million places he could go, but he chooses  _ here _ . And? I have it on good authority that he works in Manhattan, so not only is he choosing here, he’s choosing to get his coffee before he even begins his commute.”

That’s...definitely something. Bucky closes his mouth, his argument dying on his tongue. Nat smirks at him. “Going to believe me now?” she asks sweetly.

“Lots of people do that,” Bucky argues weakly.

“They do,” Natasha concedes. “But after seeing you  _ once _ he comes by every single morning, and every single morning I catch him glancing hopefully behind the counter.” She steps forward and gently places her hands on Bucky’s shoulders. “You can’t self-hate your way out of this, James. He wants the D, and yours specifically.”

Then she pats him lightly on the cheek and says, “Now go handle the register. I need a break.”

——

The morning passes quickly, which Bucky is grateful for. He handles the register for Clint’s break as well and then retreats back into the kitchen to to work on a fresh batch of chocolate-chip banana bread.   


After the lunch rush he goes out to the front of house to wipe down the tables. He’s not even two feet from the counter when he stops dead in his tracks, because Hot Jogger Guy is sitting at one of the window tables,  _ alone _ , and staring down at his mug with—sadness? Yeah, that downturned mouth is definitely sadness. Even his normally straight shoulders are slumped.

This is unprecedented. Hot Jogger Guy has never been here at lunchtime, and if Natasha is right and he  _ does _ work in Manhattan, then him being here is interesting enough to warrant investigation.

Bucky hesitates. On one hand, he actually does need to go out there and do his job because the lunch crowd is always one step down from a stampeding herd of wildebeests. On the other, he’s made it an entire week without actually coming into contact with Hot Jogger Guy again.

As soon as he thinks it, Bucky realizes how absolutely ridiculous it is. He’s spent cumulatively nearly forty hours of his life avoiding a man he doesn’t even know because, what, he was cute and Bucky embarrassed himself in front of him?

_ Yeah, Barnes _ , he thinks,  _ you’re doing so great acclimating back into civilian life. _

After another minute of hesitation where he flips through his mental rolodex of all the ways he could further embarrass himself, Bucky sighs and squares his shoulders.

He used to go into clubs all the time and picked up guys whose faces he’d been barely able to see. He can go up to the cute businessman with the impossible body and ask him how his damn coffee was.

_ You’ve got this _ . That’s what he tells himself as he lifts up the divide between the counter and the rest of the shop.  _ He is just a man—albeit a very cute man. C’mon, just a few more steps, a little bit of hospitality-voice rapport, and you can run back to the kitchen. _

The sleeves of Hot Jogger Guy’s shirt are rolled up to his elbows to expose pale skin thickly corded with muscle. The sunlight coming in from the window halos around his blond hair, gilding it a buttery gold.

As Bucky approaches he sees a small plate on the table as well, and on it a wrapper that has undoubtedly come from one of the lemon-blueberry muffins he had baked that morning. He was proud of those muffins.

Summoning what little courage he has left, he clears his throat and asks, “Did you enjoy the muffin?”

Hot Jogger Guy startles, looking up and blinking. This close Bucky can see how long his lashes are, and it makes his knees a little unsteady. Then Hot Jogger Guy  _ smiles _ and it’s up close and directed at  _ him _ and Bucky is actually certain that he’s going to faint. It crinkles the corners of Hot Jogger Guy’s eyes and makes them cute and squinty, and oh, Bucky is so, so fucked over this man.

“Oh, uh, yeah, it was great,” Hot Jogger Guy says in his deep baritone, still smiling like he isn’t currently turning Bucky’s innards into useless goo. “You baked them, right? I always see you coming out of the kitchen with the desserts.”

Bucky flushes to the tips of his ears at that, but the soft smile Hot Jogger Guy is offering him shows that he remembers The Incident but won’t mention it. “I did. Didn’t know I was proficient with a rolling pin ‘til I got hired here, but, um, I’m glad you like it. The muffin, I mean.”

“Everything you bake is amazing,” Hot Jogger Guy says. He holds out his hand. “Seriously, I’m not just sayin’ it. I’m Steve, by the way.”

Bucky switches the cleaning rag to his left hand and takes Steve’s in his right. “Bucky.” His palm is wide and warm and surprisingly soft except for a few calluses on his fingers.

“Bucky,” Steve repeats, shaping the name around a smile as he lets go of Bucky’s hand. “Interesting. That’s not really a New York name, is it?”

Chuckling, Bucky holds up his hands and says, “You got me. I lived in Indiana until I was ten, and then my family moved out here.”

“That sounds more like it,” Steve says, still with that crooked grin

A moment of silence passes between them, and Bucky asks, “So what brings you here this late in the day?

_ Way to sound fucking creepy. _

He quickly adds, “Not that I, like, know when you’re gonna be here!”

_ Oh yeah, that makes it better. _

Luckily, all Steve does is laugh. “No, you’re right. I usually don’t leave my office until after six, and you’re closed by then.” He makes direct eye contact as he says it, then rubs a hand along the back of his neck, looking a little sheepish. “I actually had an art show today at the gallery down the street.”

“You’re an artist?” Bucky can’t help but be surprised. Not that it matters what you look like to do what you love, but between the athlete’s body and the suits Bucky never would’ve pegged Steve for something like art. It’s so...soft.

“Since I was a kid,” admits Steve. “Nothin’ serious, though. I wanted to go to college to get my BFA in Fine Arts, but my ma died when I was a senior in high school, and I got no other family, so.” He shrugs. “Business school it was. Anyway, it’s clearly a good thing I didn’t go, because not a single person bought any of my paintings.”

“Oh,” says Bucky, and then immediately mentally kicks himself. “There’s always next time, right?”

Steve shrugs. “Yeah, could be. I just...I dunno.”

God, he’s so  _ sad _ , and he looks like a puppy, and Bucky is so  _ weak _ .

“Let me look at your paintings,” Bucky’s mouth says before he can stop it. “It ain’t like I have a lot of art experience, but I bet your work is great.”

Steve doesn’t scoff, but it’s a close thing. Bucky discovers he’s been wringing the rag in his hands and forces himself to stop.

“I won’t tell you no,” Steve says, “but I can’t promise you’ll enjoy them. You got a phone?”

And that’s how Bucky ends up with Hot Jogger Guy’s— _ Steve’s _ —number in his phone and a promise from him to have a few photos texted to Bucky later that night.

“Thank you for the food. And, uh, the reassurance, too,” Steve says as he begins to stand. He fixes that grin on Bucky again; Bucky hopes the one he gives in return is steady and not at all as awkward as he feels right now.

“Hope to see you again soon?” Bucky says, his nerves upticking the statement into a question.

Steve shrugs his suit jacket back on, and as he adjusts his cuffs he blatantly trails his eyes from Bucky’s face to his feet and back up, a slow crawl. A smirk this time when he says, “Yeah, I’ll be back.”

He turns and heads for the door. Bucky’s rooted there even after the bell above the door has finished jangling merrily.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this was intended to only be four chapters, but somehow this fic really just took on a life of its own. if i had kept it all one final chapter it would have been far too long. plus i like the anticipation ;)
> 
> our lil bucky goes on a date! so proud!

Bucky gets a text message that night as he’s eating Thai, and it’s not from Sam, Natasha,  _ or _ Clint.

**_From Hot Jogger Guy Steve:_** _Hey, it’s Steve_

**_From Hot Jogger Guy Steve:_ ** _ From the coffee shop _

**_From Hot Jogger Guy Steve:_ ** _ I really hope this is your number and not just a random one _

Bucky laughs as the last text comes in, setting down his chopsticks to pick up his phone. He still isn’t sure how they got the touch screen to respond to the metal fingers, but he’s damn glad they did.

**_From Bucky:_** _i can’t believe you’d take me for that kind of person steve. i’m as honest as they come_

**_From Hot Jogger Guy Steve:_ ** _ Well that’s good because that’s what I need right now. I’m gonna send you a few photos in just a bit, hang on _

A few minutes pass before Bucky’s phone chimes with a picture message. When he pulls it up he sees that Steve has attached six photos, and he opens the first one without really knowing what to expect.

And what he  _ doesn’t _ expect at all is for Steve to be so goddamn  _ good _ .

The first two are abstract: bright colors in varying swatches and brushstrokes, parts of the canvas where Steve laid the paint on thick so it rose up from the surface. There isn’t a defining aspect of them, but Bucky’s pretty sure that’s the point. Whatever it is, he wouldn’t be opposed to hanging one or both of them in his depressingly bare living room.

The following three are charcoal and—if Bucky had to guess—oil paints. The abstract paintings had been beautiful and thought-provoking, but these leave Bucky speechless.

Steve is amazing with a paintbrush, but his talent shows in his charcoal drawings: they’re simplistic but detailed. The first one is Steve’s apartment, Bucky assumes, with the perspective focused on two large windows. The shadows suggest late-afternoon; Steve has used the paint for pops of contrast, like a vase of bright flowers on the coffee table.

When Bucky looks at the second drawing, he nearly drops his phone.

It’s  _ him _ , at the coffee shop. There’s no mistaking it. He’s standing by the bakery case, a tray of oil-painted muffins in his metal hand. Steve got everything right, even down to the slight bump on his ear, visible where his hair is tucked behind it.

Bucky stares at the photo in a state of something like mild shock. No one has ever drawn him before. No one has ever drawn him  _ and _ put him in an art show before. And who would want to now, with his arm and his scars and the permanent dark circles under his eyes?

His phone chimes.

**_From Hot Jogger Guy Steve:_** _So what do you think? are they terrible?_

And Bucky, because he is a complete and utter wreck, only responds with:

**_From Bucky:_ ** _ you drew me _

There is no response for several minutes, and Bucky uses this time to stare some more at the drawing. He doesn’t understand how  _ no one _ could be interested in Steve’s work. Bucky’s seen pieces just as stunning in the MoMa.

His phone chimes again, and Bucky’s stomach curls into a tight ball.

**_From Hot Jogger Guy Steve:_ ** _ I’m sorry if I overstepped. You’re just...so beautiful, Bucky _

**_From Bucky:_ ** _ do you mean that? _

**_From Hot Jogger Guy Steve:_ ** _ god of course I do. I couldn’t take my eyes off you the first time I saw you _

**_From Hot Jogger Guy Steve:_ ** _ And then I realized that I don’t know anything about you and I want to learn _

**_From Hot Jogger Guy Steve:_ ** _ But only if you’ll let me _

Let him?  _ Let him _ ? Bucky would do anything that Steve asked of him. Steve is six feet of hulking gorgeous man and Bucky would have to be crazy (or straight) to not accept the offer. And since he is neither, Bucky quickly texts back a response.

**_From Bucky:_ ** _ you dont even need to ask steve holy shit _

Steve responds with a string of emojis: heart-eyes and every color of heart available. The typing bubble pops up again immediately underneath, and Bucky chews on his thumbnail as he waits.

**_From Hot Jogger Guy Steve:_ ** _ What kind of food do you like? I’m going to assume taking you out for coffee is off the table _

Bucky collapses back onto the couch with a giggle.

**_From Bucky:_ ** _ good call. when you smell like coffee grinds permanently you tend to avoid it _

**_From Bucky:_ ** _ i like good pizza _

**_From Hot Jogger Guy Steve:_ ** _ My kinda New Yorker. There’s a great place by my apartment if you’re free on Sunday? _

Bucky is very,  _ very _ free, but he hesitates above the virtual keyboard. He’s always been a flirt online, but when it comes to having a face-to-face interaction,  _ especially _ something like a date, he tends to freeze. It had nearly drained him dry this afternoon even gathering up the courage to talk to Steve for barely ten minutes. How would he last, at the very least, a few hours?

He’s not the man he used to be. Even though Steve doesn’t know that man Bucky does, and he can’t help but compare himself every single day. That man would have already said yes, would already be picking out an outfit, would be wondering if Steve is a sex-on-the-first-date kinda guy.

This man, who twitches at every loud noise, feels panic tightening a knot around his lungs. Setting his phone on his stomach Bucky grinds the heel of his right hand against his eye, taking slow, deep breaths to loosen his chest.

His phone chimes again and Bucky nearly flings it into the TV in his haste to pick it up.

**_From Hot Jogger Guy Steve:_ ** _ There’s absolutely no pressure, btw. You can say no _

**_From Bucky:_ ** _ no! no it’s not that. it’s just like....i don’t wanna disappoint you _

**_From Hot Jogger Guy Steve:_ ** _ There’s no way you could. I’m not exactly in the habit of taking random guys’ numbers, you know _

He follows it up with a winking emoji.

A smile pulls at the corners of Bucky’s mouth. He texts back before he can lose his nerve.

**_From Bucky_ ** _ : okay _

**_From Bucky:_ ** _ your art is amazing _

**_From Bucky:_ ** _ and i’m free sunday night _

**_From Hot Jogger Guy Steve:_ ** _ Then it’s a date _

Bucky locks his phone and pulls one of the pillows from the couch over his face. He can’t help but feel a bit like a teenager again, awed that someone actually  _ likes _ him, Bucky Barnes, former addict with a host of near-debilitating issues. And that someone likes him enough to  _ draw him _ and then place it in an art show.

It stirs up hope inside Bucky, a warm little ball that he’d long since pushed down against the harsh grit of reality; now, as he thinks about Steve’s impossibly blue eyes and crooked smile, he lets that warmth grow.

——

Most of the next morning is spent thinking about his conversation with Steve: how Steve had ended with  _ it’s a date _ and Bucky hadn’t had the nerve to reply back, too afraid to fuck it up by saying the wrong thing. He can’t even be mad when a group of teenage girls come in when he’s running the register for Clint’s break and instantly begin rattling off complicated orders, not when he remembers that ridiculously hot Steve asked  _ him _ out.

It’s busy, like most Saturdays, and Bucky soaks it up, letting the hectic momentum fuel him. It quiets his head and doesn’t leave him a lot of space to worry about Sunday night. A few times Clint gives him odd looks, but Bucky studiously ignores him.

Despite the rush keeping him busy, it’s still a relief when the shop closes and he’s able to go home. Once he gets there he feels confident for all of five minutes until opens his closet door, where it then it becomes painfully obvious that he is woefully unprepared for any sort of date in the near future.

Somehow, in the last year, his wardrobe has become nothing but his all-black practical work clothes, ripped jeans, and casual tees (most of which are either band tees or have puns on them). Bucky stares forlornly into the depths of his closet and tries to will something appropriate together.

He has a  _ date _ in a little over twenty-four hours and he has nothing to wear.

Normally this is when he would text Nat, or Clint, but he absolutely does not need the inevitable teasing that will come with it; he’s already worked himself up into a lather as it is. So he goes with his next, although questionable, choice.

“Sam,” Bucky says frantically into the phone, “I have a date and I have nothing to wear.”

_ “You’re asking  _ me _?”  _ Sam’s voice crackles down the line after a few silent moments.  _ “The same me who you said dresses like a college boy constantly reliving his glory days?” _

“In my defense that was a bad day.”

_ “Uh-huh. So you gonna tell me how this  _ date _ happened?” _

Bucky blushes furiously, grateful for the safety of the phone and his empty apartment. Just thinking about it still makes his heart race. “It just...did.”

_ “It just did, huh? Yeah, that doesn’t work. Was it the guy from the shop?” _

Bucky says nothing, and Sam practically crows his delight. _ “Hah, I knew it! My advice worked, didn’t it? Don’t be shy, Buck, you can’t always be right.” _

“Fuck you,” Bucky says, but he rolls his eyes. “Listen, Wilson, you gonna help me or not? Last time I had a date I had two arms, so it’s safe to say that I’m more than a little rusty.”

_ “Ah, it’s like ridin’ a bike,”  _ Sam replies dismissively. In the background there’s a metallic clinking noise, followed by muted shuffling.  _ “What do you want, you drama queen? Chinese?” _

“God,  _ yes _ .”

Forty minutes later Bucky lets Sam into his apartment, immediately taking the warm plastic bags and inhaling greedily as he carries them to the table.

“Hello to you, too,” Sam says behind him, shutting the door. “‘Thanks for the food, Sam.’ ‘No problem, Bucky.’”

“Hi,” Bucky says as he begins unpacking the food, setting out a paper carton of rice and two plastic containers stuffed to the brim: lo mein for Sam, orange chicken for Bucky. “Thank you for the food.”

“Yeah, yeah.” Sam waves it off, coming to stand next to the table. Bucky focuses, probably a little too intently, on getting chopsticks out of the bag, then the napkins, then the little packets of hot sauce, soy sauce, and duck sauce. He knows the interrogation is coming and tries to put it off as long as possible.

With Sam, though, Bucky caves every time. He can see Sam out of the corner of his eye, arms crossed over his chest, and holds out for only another minute before he says, “What?”

“You gonna tell me how we went from ‘I can’t do it, Sam’ to ‘I may be getting my dick wet, Sam’?”

“I never said that!”

“It was implied,” replies Sam, reaching forward to take the container of lo mein.

Bucky groans, burying his face in his hands. “I told him I would vet his art for him and gave him my number. Can we at least eat before I give you all the details?”

“Long as I get to pick the movie.”

Bucky sighs, gathering up the rest of the food to take to the living room.

They make it almost halfway through  _ Star Trek _ before Sam puts his food down on the coffee table and says, “Okay. Spill.”

They’re seated on the couch with the lights off, comfortably on opposite ends, and Bucky groans before pressing pause on the remote. He looks over at Sam, whose eyebrows are raised, and says, “You act like it’s some sordid love affair.”

Sam’s expression softens. “Seriously, man. I know you haven’t been romantically interested in anyone since you got back for a lot of reasons. This is a huge step forward. I’m proud of you.”

Bucky fights the urge to roll his eyes, a default reaction to anyone expressing sincerity towards him. He forces himself to say, “Thanks, Sam,” but the smile he gives is every bit sincere.

“Look at you,” Sam says, “showing human emotion.”

“Fuck off. Do you want to hear the story or not?” Bucky throws a pillow at him.

Sam catches it, tossing it back onto the couch. “All right, all right, I’m done teasing, I swear.”

Bucky narrows his eyes, pretending to glare, before he begins.

——

For all that Bucky teases Sam, he knows how to dress to impress. After scouring Bucky’s closet, with a lot of “Man, why do you even  _ own _ this?” and near-tantrums from Bucky, he’d picked out Bucky’s tightest work jeans, a black pair washed so many times they’ve begun to turn charcoal, and a black-and-red flannel that, in Sam’s words, “looks way more formal when you wear it as it’s intended, instead of open over a stupid T-shirt all the time.”

Bucky, despite feeling distinctly way too Sam Winchester for his taste as he stands in front of the mirror carefully slicking back his hair, has to agree.

They’d settled on meeting at seven PM. Because his anxiety never knows when to quit, Bucky ends up at the restaurant nearly twenty minutes ahead of schedule. He spends five of that standing awkwardly outside, then sends a frantic text to Steve.

**_From Hot Jogger Guy Steve:_ ** _ The reservation is under Rogers. Go ahead and get seated, I’ll be there soon :) _

He gives it to the hostess, who leads him to a fairly secluded two-seater booth towards the back of the restaurant. She sets down two menus and says, “Your waiter will be with you shortly.”

After she leaves Bucky picks up one of the menus, scanning it idly, most of his attention focused on the front of the restaurant. Every person that walks in that  _ isn’t _ Steve makes a heavy ball drop in his stomach until he’s certain he’s going to keel over with the force of it.

“It’s just a date,” he mutters, trying to will his nerves down. “You’re better than this, Barnes.”

A nasty part of him insists that he’s not, and Bucky looks at the dinner options on the menu, trying to ignore it, until someone steps up to the side of the booth.

“Oh, sorry, I’m still waiting on someone,” Bucky says, presuming it’s the waiter.

“I sure hope that someone is me,” a voice replies, warm with amusement. Bucky’s head snaps up so fast it’s a miracle he didn’t break his neck.

Steve’s standing over him, tall and breathtaking in his plum-colored button-up. Bucky opens his mouth, then closes it. Steve, to his credit, doesn’t acknowledge Bucky’s dying fish moment and instead takes a seat across from him. Bucky absolutely does not stare at the way Steve’s biceps practically bulge out of his shirtsleeves. (Okay, maybe he does a little.)

“Hi,” Steve says.

“You look great,” says Bucky.

Steve grins, his eyes scrunching up at the force of it. “So do you, Buck. Think I’m the luckiest guy in the room, if I’m gonna be honest.”

Bucky blushes, biting the inside of his lip to keep back his own smile. “Ah, you’re full of it.”

“Nah,” Steve insists. “Just honest.”

Bucky searches Steve’s face for any hint of deception, but all he can find is that Steve’s smile is ever so slightly crooked, just like this nose, that his eyes are even more blue up close and so pretty Bucky wants to drown in them. God, he’s so fucked.

“And I just wanna say thank you,” Steve continues, “for agreeing to go on this date with me.”

At that Bucky scoffs, unable to stop himself. “I should be thanking  _ you _ , Steve. You’re…” He pauses, trying to think of a way to say it without coming off as self-loathing as he feels. It’s difficult and proves fruitless.

“A dork?” Steve supplies after the pause, his eyes sparkling playfully. “A hopeless romantic who has a thing for bakers with metal arms?”

Bucky’s sure if his face gets any hotter he’s going to burst into flames.

“I was gonna say ‘unbelievably gorgeous,’ but I guess that works.”

Their waiter appears, and Steve, sheepish, says, “Oh, uh, I haven’t looked over the menu yet.”

Bucky waves him off, getting them two glasses of water while they decide. “I haven’t either, we can wait.” 

Steve reaches over for the drink menu once their waiter has left, flipping it open. “You want anything?”

“Oh, um.” Bucky squirms a little, awkward. “I can’t believe I forgot to mention this, but I can’t drink. Six months sober.”

Steve’s cheeks turn a nice pink, and he practically slam-dunks the menu back into the little holder at the edge of their booth. “Jeez, I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to be insensitive.”

Bucky shakes his head. “Nah, you didn’t know. I don’t really tell people.”

“That’s amazing, Bucky. I’m proud of you.”

Now it’s Bucky’s cheeks turning pink. He looks down at the countertop and hunches his shoulders, a habit that he’s developed since Afghanistan that he’s not overly fond of. “It’s only six months,” he mumbles.

“Hey.” Steve slides his hand across the table, palm up. He doesn’t move it further than that, and Bucky recognizes it for what it is—a silent invitation. He hesitates, but slowly slides his right hand palm-down, letting Steve close the connection and twine their fingers together.

The contact, as simple as it is, makes Bucky have to fight back a shudder. When was the last time he let someone touch him so casually? He’s so used to hunching away from everyone, keeping himself sheltered from the world, keeping himself safe.

But Steve’s managed to break it down so quickly, making Bucky let down barriers that have been up for years. It scares him, but it’s also relieving, in a sense. Like a weight has been lifted off his back and he’s finally able to stand straight.

“Six months is still a long time,” Steve says. “You’re doing real good. I bet your folks are proud.”

Bucky smiles, though a little tight-lipped at the pang of remembrance the words send through him. “If they were alive I’m sure they would be.”

Steve looks like he wants to be anywhere else. “I’m really mucking this up, aren’t I?”

Bucky laughs softly and shakes his head. He squeezes Steve’s hand. “I think you’re doing just fine. It’s cool, Steve, I promise. We’re just getting to know each other, of course it’s bound to get awkward.”

Steve’s shoulders drop a little from where they’d hunched up ever so slightly, and the squeeze of his hand back on Bucky’s makes butterflies— _ butterflies! _ —erupt in his stomach.

Bucky’s an adult and avoids words like  _ crush _ , but it’s undeniable that that’s what this is: he may be cynical and bitter, but everything about Steve makes him giddy, makes him almost feel like he did  _ before _ .

Any other time he would freak out and start pulling back immediately, but he finds that he just...won’t, or can’t, and he doesn’t think he’ll be able to. It’s a little like letting the waves take you further out, and when you go to put your feet down there’s the stomach-dropping moment of nothing for you to ground yourself on.

Their waiter stops by again, and Steve nods at Bucky’s inquisitive look. They order, and despite Bucky’s insistence that Steve getting a drink is fine if he wants it Steve sticks with the water, same as Bucky.

“Leveling the playing field,” Steve jokes, and Bucky rolls his eyes fondly.

They fall into an easy rapport while they wait for their food, and Bucky surprises himself by telling Steve how far he spiralled after coming back to the States.

“It was...difficult,” he admits. He runs the thumb of his flesh hand over the condensation on his water glass. “This one guy, Rumlow, I met him at one of the VA support groups they strong-armed me into going to when I got released after my surgery. We started hanging out, and at first it was just bars all the time, getting shitfaced and not being able to go into work the next day. I lost the first job I managed to get after a few weeks of that. Then the next. After that I just kinda...stopped caring. First time he brought heroin over to my apartment, I didn’t think twice. And, well, you can kinda guess what happened next.”

“Oh, Buck,” Steve says sadly, but Bucky waves him off.

“It’s in the past,” he says. “I can’t change it and it’s behind me, so I don’t see how bein’ sad over it will make a difference.”

Steve gives him a look that can only be described as “moony,” and Bucky, bashful, quickly changes the subject. “Anyway, what about you? Got any family? Past demons I should know about? Ties to the mafia, perhaps?”

It coaxes a laugh from Steve, deep and rich. Bucky wants to live in that sound.

“I’m pretty boring, I’m afraid to admit,” Steve replies. “My dad died when I was a baby and you already know about my ma. She was the one who encouraged me to pursue art, actually.”

“I meant it,” Bucky says, “when I told you that you were good.”

Steve smiles, soft and intimate in a way that makes Bucky’s skin buzz. “Thanks, Buck.”

Bucky discovers that Steve used to be short and skinny and asthmatic. Steve manages to weasel out of Bucky that he had a grunge phase back in high school. Dinner goes by quick once they get their food, and when the check comes—which Steve pays for, despite Bucky’s numerous insistences—he’s reluctant to leave.

Steve, it seems, feels the same. He rubs the back of his neck, drawing his lower lip briefly between his teeth, and says slowly, “I apologize if this is a little...forward, but I really don’t want this night to end yet. Feel free to tell me no, but would you like to come back to my apartment?”

He’s looking at Bucky through his lashes. The angle of his arm makes his bicep bulge obscenely through the dark material of his shirt. He’s so improbably perfect, and he’s asking  _ Bucky _ to come back to his apartment?

“It doesn’t have to be about sex,” Steve continues.

Bucky has rarely been a sex-on-the-first-date kinda guy, but there’s something about Steve that makes Bucky throw any caution that he has to the wind. A tingle that feels like a mix between excitement and fear travels from the soles of Bucky’s feet up to the roots of his hair.

He has an out, and he finds that he doesn’t want to take it.

“Let’s see where the night takes us,” Bucky says.

Steve’s eyes widen, and Bucky bites the inside of his cheek to keep from laughing. When he stands and offers his left hand, Steve takes it without hesitation.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> aaaaand we're done! thank you to everyone who has read and stuck through this, and everyone who has commented and left kudos! y'all are amazing. life has been shitty but you have not <3

Steve’s apartment is about a five-minute walk away, according to him. Once they get outside he slides his hand back into Bucky’s and asks, “You ready?”

Bucky nods mutely. Steve had taken his left hand again and it makes Bucky’s stomach wobble. Someone so easily accepting this foreign and unnatural part of himself brings a rush of emotions almost too powerful for Bucky to deal with. When he thinks Steve isn’t looking he hurriedly wipes his eyes with the back of his free hand.

“You okay, Buck?”

Damn it.

“Uh, yeah,” Bucky says. Steve is looking at him with naked concern and it makes him shift awkwardly. “Just...got something in my eye.”  _ Real smooth, real unique _ .

Steve clearly doesn’t buy it, but he doesn’t say anything else. He smiles at Bucky in a way that can only be described as dopey, and Bucky finds himself smiling back.

The walk is quick, and they’re quiet throughout. It’s a good silence, Bucky discovers, comfortable like a second skin. He doesn’t feel a need to fill it with inane chatter, content instead to rub his thumb over the back of Steve’s hand while they wait at a red light. It’s almost...homey.

The light changes and Steve still looks both ways, making Bucky smile softly. They cross the street and walk in silence for a few more minutes.

“I had a really good time,” Steve eventually remarks.

“I did, too,” Bucky says, pleasantly surprised to find that it isn’t a lie. He can’t even remember the last time he had a successful date.

When they make it up to Steve’s place the atmosphere changes. Bucky knew his resolve was tenuous, but being alone with Steve, with the spice of his cologne, the breadth of his chest and shoulders, the gemstone blue of his eyes, makes the temptation too great. And Bucky has never been good at denying himself that.

“Can I?” Steve asks, eyes impossibly earnest. They’re close enough that Bucky can see the faint freckles across the bridge of Steve’s nose, could count his eyelashes if he wanted to. He’s nervous, of course he is, but Steve allows him to  _ want _ again. To feel something he’d thought forgotten.

So he nods.  
  
He hasn’t been kissed in over two years.

Steve’s lips are warm under his, impossibly soft, that plush lower lip dragging over Bucky’s. Bucky’s stiff at first until a low noise from Steve’s throat relaxes him; then he’s leaning in, letting Steve pace it, groaning when Steve’s tongue slides into his mouth. He meets its retreat with his own, and it’s a little clumsy, a little too eager, but Steve makes a happy sound and kisses him deeper, so Bucky thinks he’s at least got  _ something _ going for him.

It draws out, slow but rapidly picking up pace. Steve is pressed against the wall and Bucky is caging him in until their low exhales turn faint pants, until Bucky’s heart is racing in his chest and the fire from his fire is working its way down to that space in his belly.

“Bedroom?” Bucky asks when he can breathe somewhat properly in between the filthy-slick noises of their mouths.

“End of the hallway,” Steve pants, threading his fingers through Bucky’s hair.

Though Steve is the one controlling the kiss Bucky is the one leading them to the bedroom, fists clenched in the front of Steve’s shirt. They nearly topple over the lamp in the living room, and when they finally make it to the bedroom Bucky barely manages to avoid hitting his shin against the bed frame as he pushes Steve down onto the mattress.

Steve scoots backwards, dragging Bucky with him until they’re settled comfortably in the middle of the bed, Bucky’s thighs spread over Steve’s hips. Steve’s hands slide only marginally lower, from Bucky’s face and neck to his biceps, and Bucky is torn between being grateful and begging Steve to move them further down.

He doesn’t even spare a thought for the metal arm and how he doesn’t like it to be touched. Right now his goal is to get Steve to touch every part of him that he can, and if it has to start at the arms he’ll take it.

Steve’s tongue teases again at the slick seam of Bucky’s lips, and Bucky moans, letting himself go pliant, letting Steve  _ take _ , the way he’d enjoyed with partners in a past life. It revs him up, although the process is slow, taking a few minutes to build from a dull, pleasant hum into an insistent ache that makes him pull back once he unconsciously begins to roll his hips down.

“Slow down, slow down,” he murmurs, breaking the kiss with a sound that does nothing to lessen the pulse of arousal at his groin. Steve immediately moves his hands to Bucky’s shoulders, rubbing gently as they catch their breath.

“Jesus,” Bucky breathes, eyes wide as he stares down at Steve. “It’s been so long I’d forgotten how good that is.” Steve’s cheeks are flushed. Bucky feels almost giddy, drunk off the near-forgotten hedonistic quality of a good makeout session.

Steve laughs, mouth pulled wide in a grin. One of his big hands cards through Bucky’s hair where it falls over his face, tucking it behind his ear, and as he does a knuckle drags along Bucky’s cheek. A shiver snakes its way up Bucky’s spine in response.

“Yeah?” says Steve. “Pretty thing like you should be getting kissed all the time, in my opinion.”

Bucky flushes, conscious of the bulk of his metal arm, the scars down the left side of his body that speak of anything but beauty. “‘m not pretty.”

“Those gorgeous eyes tell me otherwise,” Steve replies, stubborn as anything. “And that mouth,  _ god _ . Prettiest mouth I’ve ever seen.” His thumb comes up to rub over Bucky’s lower lip, back and forth, back and forth.

Bucky isn’t sure what possesses him to do it: he grabs Steve’s wrist, gentle since it’s with his left hand, curling his fingers around that fragile bone. Keeping their eyes locked he parts his lips more, lets his tongue snake out to brush, teasing, against the pad of Steve’s thumb.

It’s beginning to get harder and harder to see why he’d been denying himself, why he was prepared to let Steve get away without finding out what he sounds like.

With every second Bucky can feel his control lessen, like a thread being pulled.

Steve’s eyes widen, pupils blowing huge and black in the dim light. His short blond hair is spread messy on Bucky’s pillows and strewn over his forehead. His adam’s apple bobs with a heavy swallow.

Bucky slides his mouth fully over Steve’s thumb and seals his lips around it.

Steve sucks in a choked-sounding breath. “Bucky, you don’t gotta—”

“But what if I want to?” Bucky says, pressing one final kiss to the damp pad of Steve’s thumb before bringing Steve’s hand down to the front of his jeans. He arches forward, letting the hard length of his cock fill Steve’s palm.

Beneath him Steve’s lips part; he looks  _ hungry _ . His grasp firms, curious fingers seeking the line of Bucky’s cock, and Bucky inhales sharply.

“Do you?” Steve asks, eyes flicking up to Bucky’s. “Would you let me?”

Bucky swallows hard, pushing down the rising tide of panic. It’s been so long since he’s felt this, since he’s actually  _ wanted _ it. He trusts Steve in a way he hasn’t trusted anyone since getting back. It’s an odd feeling, really, and one that he never thought that he would experience again, not after Brock, after the shit hands that life has constantly dealt him.

Plus, the thought of Steve’s blond, beautiful head between his legs is more than enough incentive for Bucky to say yes.

He nods; certain, absolute. “Yeah, Steve.  _ Yes _ .”

With his trembling flesh hand he seeks the answering bulge in Steve’s jeans, running the backs of his fingers teasingly over it to feel the twitch it gives.

“But first let me…” He swallows hard, wetting his dry mouth. “Let me suck you.”

Steve groans, a low sound trapped between his teeth, then nods. Bucky kisses him once more, deep and filthy, before sliding down Steve’s body. When he pushes Steve’s shirt up the skin of his belly is hot, the hair leading down to disappear under the waistband of Steve’s jeans fine and soft, and Steve squirms when Bucky lets his lips drag from the dip of his navel to the cool metal of his belt buckle.

A large, heavy hand rests gently on Bucky’s head. He looks up, feeling a surge of power and arousal at Steve’s dark eyes staring down at him, full lower lip red and wet from where he must have been chewing on it. Bucky dares to go a little lower, letting his chin bump against the hard curve of Steve’s cock. At the slight hitch in Steve’s breath he says, “You can pull my hair, if you want to. I like that.”

“God,  _ Bucky _ ,” Steve says, but his hand goes to Bucky’s hair, and he’s gentle in gathering it up, wrapping it around his fist and giving an experimental tug. It’s nowhere near the way Bucky likes it, but he moans anyway, spurred on by the knowledge that it’s Steve.

The sight of the rise in Steve’s jeans makes Bucky’s head fuzzy, all the want and lust rolling through him so quickly he has to take a deep breath just to steady himself. When he fits his mouth around the shape of it Steve’s fist tightens, and the tingles it sends racing from Bucky’s scalp down his neck make him groan.

“Oh,” Steve says, breathless. “ _ Sweetheart _ .”

Bucky looks up again, heart pounding hard in his chest, and says, “Undo your pants.”

Steve does, so quick and eager that Bucky nearly gets smacked in the face with his belt as Steve slides it through the loops. At Steve’s furiously red-faced apologies Bucky just laughs, says, “It’s okay, Steve. We got all night, let’s just go slow, okay?”

Steve nods, sucking in an unsteady breath. He flips the button open, careful, pausing on the zipper. Once it’s down he pulls the flaps of his jeans aside, and Bucky lets himself groan as the swell of Steve’s cock is revealed, a small damp spot towards the waistband where the head strains.

Inside his jeans his own cock gives an angry throb, reminding him of his lack of focus on himself. “Take yourself out,” he croaks, trying not to hump the bed like a teenager. Steve lets out a shuddering sigh, swallowing hard. Bucky moves back to make room and Steve is quick, easing his underwear down and tucking the waistband under his balls.

The musky, intimate scent of him hits Bucky first. Steve’s barely bigger than average but he is thick where he rests in a neatly-groomed patch of dark blond hair. Bucky can already imagine how that weight will feel stretching his jaw, and it’s sufficient enough to leave him groaning quietly, more to himself than anything.

“Christ,” he breathes, eyes darting up to Steve’s face. “Look at you, baby. You’re gonna make my jaw hurt so fuckin’ good with a cock that thick. Can you touch yourself for me? Just once.”

Steve obeys, breath hitching as he curls his hand around his cock. He gives himself a stroke, slow, from root to tip, and his voice is wrecked as he says, “You want it, Buck?”

Though insecure about a lot of things, Bucky is at least confident in his ability to suck a man’s brains out through his dick. However, that confidence easily frays in the face of his depression and self-worth issues, and it’s quickly pushed aside.

For a few long seconds his face burns, and he can’t help the sudden rush of  _ what if he hates it what if I’m bad what if I embarrass myself _ . Visions of Steve laughing at him, telling him how useless he is, flash in front of his eyes.

This is far from his first rodeo, so to speak. He’d first gone down on a guy in high school, some closeted hockey player a year above him, and he’s made it a point since to do it as much as possible, because, well—not a lot gets Bucky’s rocks off like a dick in his mouth. Or it did, at least.

So it’s almost laughable that now, at less than a year shy of thirty years old, he’s more scared than he’d been when he was sixteen.

Bucky takes a deep breath to center himself, eyeing that gorgeous cock and the way the thick vein along the underside flutters with Steve’s pulse.

_ Finally _ , in the middle of his brain saying that Steve deserves so much better and can score so much better, Bucky manages to quiet the thoughts enough to nod and say, with as much confidence as he can muster, “ _ Yeah _ .”

He wraps his right hand around Steve’s cock and angles it up, appreciating its heft and weight in his grip. The fat mushroom head is already slick, pre-come pearling up from the slit to slope down the ridge. Bucky licks once, testing, inhaling sharply at the bitter spread of it on his tongue.

Beneath him Steve’s hips tense. He moans, a small thing, and slides his fingers back into Bucky’s hair. The gentle grip of it, the hint of strength behind it, is all the encouragement he needs to sink down, lips curled carefully over his teeth.

“Fuck,” Steve swears, twisting up until Bucky’s left hand pins his hips down. His head falls back, every inch of him taut as Bucky sinks down to the circle of his fist.

He was right: the length of Steve fits perfectly in his mouth, just enough to tease at slipping down his throat, but the girth of him pulls his lips wide. Bucky can already feel his jaw aching, saliva building at the tight corners of his mouth. Eyes slipping closed, Bucky moans; it makes Steve swear a blue streak, the hand in Bucky’s hair tightening enough to bring tears to his eyes.

“Oh, Buck,” Steve breathes, “god, you’re so  _ good _ . Makin’ me feel  _ so good _ , honey.”

Bucky doesn’t whine, but the noise that he does make isn’t too far off. Steve arches up against the unyielding press of Bucky’s metal hand, making a low noise when he finds himself pinned.

It gets sloppy quick, the obscene wet noises of his mouth loud in his ears, skating red-hot trails of arousal down his spine to the aching throb of his cock in his jeans. He finally has to relent and take his hand off of Steve’s dick to press it against the front of his jeans instead, exhaling roughly through his nose at the pleasure just a simple touch rockets through him.

The hand in his hair goes from gripping to petting, and Steve’s deep voice, gravelled with lust, says, “You gonna touch yourself? C’mon, Buck, lemme see you. Bet your cock’s just as pretty as the rest of you.”

Bucky pulls back with a wet sound that makes his cheeks flare hot, but he still manages to raise an eyebrow at Steve. “You say that to all the boys?”

“Just the cute ones currently sucking my dick,” Steve replies, sounding more than a little dazed. He grins, lopsided and beautiful, and Bucky grins back.

The  _ sight _ he makes, his cheeks a pretty pink, fully clothed but already looking fucked-out, cock resting between the bottom halves of his button-down. Bucky draws his lower lip into his mouth, rubbing over himself through his jeans just to watch Steve’s reaction. Then he finally pops the button and tugs down the zipper, hissing in relief when he pushes his underwear down and takes himself in hand. He gives himself a tight stroke, cock pulsing in his grip.

“Fuck,” Steve grinds out. “C’mere, Bucky.”

Those big hands are on Bucky’s biceps, tugging until he awkwardly scrambles up, catching his balance by swinging a leg over Steve’s hip. He’s pulled down into a kiss, open-mouthed and sloppy.

“You are so  _ fucking _ hot,” Steve says in between the slide of their lips. His hand works between them, gripping Bucky’s cock. At Bucky’s sharp, surprised moan, he adds, “Want you to  _ wreck me _ with this big dick.” As if to emphasize his point he squeezes, tight, making Bucky’s hips jerk sharply.

It’s certainly a departure from Bucky’s fantasies, but he’s  _ far _ from complaining. How could he, when the real thing is leaps and bounds better than anything he’d imagined?

“Steve,” he pants. “You want t-that?”

“Yeah,” Steve breathes. “Couldn’t stop thinking about you after that first day, baby.”

“Me neither,” gasps Bucky. His orgasm is cresting quick, faster than usual, and it has everything to do with the way Steve’s sucking on his neck. He arches, shuddering, his hand grabbing a fistful of the sheets underneath them. “O-oh,  _ god _ , Steve, ‘m close.”

The rhythm of Steve’s hand speeds up, filthy-slick with the pre-come Bucky’s been steadily leaking since he got his mouth on Steve’s dick. Bucky jolts, toes curling as he pushes his cock into the tight ring of Steve’s hand.

“You gonna come for me?” Steve rumbles, kissing back up the curve of Bucky’s neck to whisper it in his ear. Bucky is untethered, desperate, only able to nod as he moans again. Higher thought has long since ceased to coalesce, and Bucky lets himself fall into lust’s deep waters.

Steve cups Bucky’s face with his free hand, directing Bucky to face him. Bucky does, a little bleary. Steve’s blue eyes are so dark, his lips red and swollen. He’s so gorgeous that the sobbing hitch Bucky lets out can only be partially blamed on the surge of heat at the base of his spine. The muscles of Steve’s bicep flex and stretch the dark fabric of his shirt with the rapid movement of his hand. It’s sin, is what it is; porn in the flesh that Bucky is, somehow, lucky enough to be a part of.

Steve rubs the broad of his palm over Bucky’s cockhead, thumbs at the frenulum, and Bucky’s gone, shaking apart with a series of whimpered, pitchy moans. Steve coaxes him through it with his hand and his voice, those attentive eyes and gentle urgings of “That’s it, beautiful” and “So good, Buck, you’re amazing.”

“Your shirt—” Bucky pants once he can breathe again, but Steve shushes him, pulling him down for a slow, deep kiss that makes every inch of Bucky, already tingling in the afterglow of his orgasm, feel ignited again.

“Don’t care,” Steve moans. “Fuck, j-just kiss me.”

Like he even needs to  _ ask _ .

The hand that had been on Bucky’s cock moves to Steve’s, and Steve grunts, low, welcoming the plunge of Bucky’s tongue into his mouth as he starts to stroke himself.

It’s quick, Steve clearly worked up in a way that makes the once-cocky part of Bucky preen. His free hand grips Bucky’s hair, chest arching up as he pushes their mouths together hard; then he shudders, helpless noises lost between his harsh breaths as he spills over his shirt.

“Can you imagine,” Steve says to the ceiling as Bucky rolls off of him with a parting kiss to his lips, “what that’s going to be like when we actually get our clothes  _ off _ .”

Bucky, who’d been busy wondering what Steve’s face looks like in the middle of his orgasm instead of mashed against his own, feels his thoughts immediately grind to a juddering halt.

“You—” Bucky has to clear his throat. “You want a...next time?”

Steve shifts onto his elbow, and Bucky turns his head. His cheeks color at the mess of semen Pollack’d up Steve’s shirt, knowing that it’s both of theirs. The buttons sag slightly with the damp weight and the twist of Steve’s body.

“Of course I want a next time,” Steve says quietly. He searches Bucky’s face. “Do you not want one?”

Bucky continues to stare at the ceiling, chewing on his lower lip. He does. He absolutely does. But he’s also a mess, in more ways than one. Tonight was good, but it doesn’t mean the next time will be. He can’t always get it up, and sometimes any sensation, even pleasure, becomes too much for him to handle.

Steve is everything that Bucky is not. There’d been a reason he’d stayed away, made his peace with his fantasies. He’s not sure he’s worthy of anything anymore.

“You know I’m a junkie,” he finally says.

Out of the corner of his eye he can see Steve’s mouth tighten.

“You’re not anymore—”

“I’m clean now, sure, but it’s only been six months. Do you know how many heroin junkies relapse? Ninety-one percent.” He turns to face Steve. “I can’t do that to you.”

“You’re not just a statistic, Buck. Remember how I told you how sick I was as a kid? So many doctors told my ma when I was a baby that I wouldn’t live past eighteen. And yet, here I am, almost thirty and healthier than I ever thought I could be. I get sick a little more easily than some, sure, and my lungs still ain’t all that great, but I’m  _ here _ , Buck. And so are you.” Steve tucks Bucky’s hair behind his ear, lets his thumb trail down Bucky’s cheek.

A lump forms in Bucky’s throat. “Anyone ever tell you that you’re too good at that?” he manages.

Steve smiles. That  _ smile _ . Bucky doesn’t understand how one person can be this beautiful, much less how they can actually be interested in  _ him _ .

“I’ve been told,” Steve teases. They’ve somehow inched closer, and when Bucky notices Steve’s eyes darting down to his mouth his own do the same to Steve’s. “Is it okay if I kiss you again?”

“God,  _ please _ ,” Bucky replies.

——

Bucky does absolutely nothing the next morning to hide the bruises on his neck, nor the fact that he woke up at Steve’s and is wearing a spare T-shirt and his jeans from last night’s date. It’s worth it to see the wordless, sly curl of Nat’s lips as she saunters in, to hear the belly-deep  _ whoop! _ Clint lets out when he makes his usual morning adventure into the kitchen for scraps, and just barely catch the furious blush on Bruce’s face as he quickly makes his way into his office after his weeklong vacation.

And it is absolutely, one-hundred-percent  _ worth it _ when Steve walks in during a rare customer-free moment, sees Bucky at the register, and turns almost as red as his pocket square when his eyes stray to the casual tilt of Bucky’s head.  
  
(Just for a second; he is a  _ professional _ , after all.)

**Author's Note:**

> tumblr is [here](http://endofadream.tumblr.com) and instagram is [here](http://instagram.com/wintersoldiered) if you’re into that sorta thing!
> 
> reviews are always lovely because i love talking about my works!


End file.
